


Dark Days

by discoloration



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, First Fanfiction, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Sherlock Feels, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discoloration/pseuds/discoloration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would he trace the scars covering Sherlock’s arm, telling him it’ll get better or will he leave?</p><p> </p><p>TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm, mentions of child abuse and drug use. Please, be careful and heed the warnings.<br/>(this is my first fanfiction so enjoy!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fix Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as one chapter, but because of reviews and messages it's a continuing story. I hope you enjoy it, but please be careful of the tw's. This isn't delicate stuff. Thank you guys for your kind messages. x

Sherlock hardly had days like this. Days where he would lay in bed, unable to move, the curtains drawn so his room was pitch black. Drugs would help on what he calls ‘dark days’. Since work could be taken away if he even contacted a dealer, they aren’t an option. His mind palace would _rot_ without work. However, cocaine and morphine weren’t the only things that kept him from going insane.  
  
Using whatever effort he had left, he sat up and looked at his bedside table. _It’s in there, you can do it._ His brain whispers. Should he? Maybe he should shout for John or send him a text. Get the idiot down here and get him to fix this. Make a cuppa and put on a horrible crime show for Sherlock to complain at.

He couldn’t find his voice though. John was too far away, probably too _busy_ with his latest girlfriend to care about Sherlock. _That’s right; he doesn’t mean a thing to you._ Stop. Shut up. It has not been this bad in ages.

Sherlock pushes all thoughts of John aside and opens the first drawer, pushing whatever was in there to the side so he could pull up a small piece of wood he cut out to make a secret compartment. The idiots at Scotland Yard think he has all these clever hiding places, but really, it’s nothing too grand.

The box he pulls out of the compartment is small and made out of oak. It’s covered in intricate carvings that make him like the small, wooden box. One thing inside of it stood out. It demanded to be held; to be used.

You could tell the razor hadn’t been used for a year or two. Things had been good since John moved in. He didn’t feel as lonely all the time and he had someone to talk to now, or yell his thoughts at. Sherlock never understood why he came back to this. Why hurting himself calmed him down or brought him out of his pit of depression.

Grabbing the silver object he placed it on the crook of his elbow, right about his old track marks. Letting out a shaky laugh, he thought _what if John saw me right now?_  The idea scared and thrilled Sherlock. Would he care? Would he trace the scars covering Sherlock’s arm, telling him it’ll get better? Or will he leave?

The last thought pushed him over the end, and he pressed harder than he should have and pulled the razor across his arm. It hurt, but it was good. He looked down at the cut that had little beads of bleed across it.

 _This makes me feel better. I’m a freak. Disgusting. Worthless._ He found himself repeating the action, going up his arm and over old scars. Relief filled him, and his thoughts were clearing up. Just as he dropped the razor onto his bed sheets that were now stained with his blood, he instantly knew someone was there.

_Someone. John. Oh, no. No, no, no, no._

“Sherlock, are you alright?” He could hear him running his hand on the wall to find the light switch.

“Yes, John. Don’t turn on the light, I have a headache. Please.” _Please._ Now he knows something is up. Sherlock doesn’t use manners unless he has to or something is wrong.

“I thought I heard someone crying. Are you sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice gentle and careful. Crying? Sherlock touches his face and feels wetness. How didn’t he notice? He didn’t even have time to think about it when the light was switched on without warning.

Sherlock flinched and tried to cover his arm, his mess, his secret that John can’t know about. John gasps and Sherlock knows he’s too late.

“Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” 


	2. Green Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please, stay.” The words were almost whispered. He sounded so weak, so small and John just nodded. That was all he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at writing John, but here you go! I don't know when the next chapter will be up. I really thought that no one would read this, so thank you to everyone who has. It means a lot.

_“Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?”_

* * *

John didn’t give Sherlock time to reply; he rushed around the room and picked up the small, silver razor and felt the urge to throw it across the room. However, he put on the bedside table, away from Sherlock’s reach. How could Sherlock do this? What made his genius do this?

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’ll talk.” John was using his doctor voice, as Sherlock called it, but he couldn’t care at the moment. Sherlock was hurting himself on purpose. His main priority was making sure the wounds weren’t too deep and got proper care. Walking into Sherlock’s bathroom he grabbed the first aid kid he had put there after he moved in and walked back to Sherlock.

“I need to clean these and bandage them, okay?” Sherlock nodded. John could tell just by looking at him that he felt ashamed. It was written across his face. “Sherlock, it’s alright. I’m here and I’m not mad at you.” Another nod, John sighed. Grabbing a hold of Sherlock’s wrist he started to clean the blood off of his arm, surveying the damage as he went. “Can you tell me how long this has been going on?” _How long have you hidden your pain from me?_ He couldn’t help it, he was overwhelmed with shock.

Over the past couple of months, Sherlock and John’s relationship has gotten stronger and more sentimental. “It started off in my teenage years. Just after Mycroft had moved out of home to go to university.” Came the monotone reply. When John looked up at him, it was like Sherlock was lost in his memories. The doctor remained quiet as he worked on bandaging up the horizontal cuts, hoping Sherlock would continue to tell him whatever he had to. He just needs to know, _needs_ to know how to help the man that is so important in his life.

“After he left, Father become crueler. To him I was just a _freak_.” He spat the word like it venom on his tounge, John could geel anger bubble up inside him. “I couldn’t control my brain, my deductions. Roughly a month after Mycroft left the physical abuse started. First, he would just slap me, but then it was punches and kicks until I couldn’t yell for help anymore. Mother done nothing, too ashamed to acknowledge it. I thought, well, instead of him hurting me, why don’t I take it out on myself? So this started. Then the drugs. Then expensive rehab clinics, but this always remained.” John listened as Sherlock went on. His heart ached at hearing what Sherlock’s father would do. It also made him feel sick.

“My eighteenth birthday was probably the worst moment of my life. Father was drunk, more than usual. After being verbally abused, I decided to fight back. Threatened that I would pack up my shit and leave. That didn’t go well. Later, I- I…” Sherlock drifted off, tears filling his eyes.

Feeling nothing but pain for his best friend, he placed a hand on his cheek. “Look, you don’t have to tell me right now. What your father done to you was disgusting. Nobody should ever hurt their own child. I hope you know that you're not a freak, Sherlock. Not to me or anyone else. You are amazing and smart.” He hopes his words impact Sherlock in some sort of way. He isn't lying to Sherlock, he is the most amazing man he has ever met.

“I’ve finished cleaning the cuts and now, how about we go into the lounge and watch some t.v? When was the last time you slept?” He looked like a zombie. His dark curls were a mess, there were huge purple bags under his eyes and his skin still hadn’t returned to its usual color.

“What day is it?” Sherlock looked at him and John’s heart almost broke right there. There emptiness in his drained eyes and John felt like he could drown in it.

“Friday.” John was glad it was Friday, he didn’t have to go to work until Tuesday, but he would probably take a week off. “Oh, three days.” His lips pulled up into a smirk and John rolled his eyes, now _that_ was his consulting detective.

“Come on, then. He doesn’t know how Sherlock can go so long without food or sleep; it’s ridiculous and probably doesn’t help his mental state either. John held onto Sherlock’s wrist as they walked out of his room, down the hallway and into their small lounge room that was currently a mess. “You get comfortable and I’ll make us a cuppa.” Just as John was about to head into the kitchen, he felt Sherlock’s hand grab his wrist.

“Please, stay.” The words were almost whispered. He sounded so weak, so small and John just nodded and walked him to the couch. That was all he could do. He sat on the far end and put a pillow right now to him, patting the spot next to him so Sherlock got the hint. After Sherlock was comfortable, head in John’s lap, John started to run his fingers through his curls. They stayed like this for an hour or two, watching re-runs of an old crime show. After a while, Sherlock's breathing evened out and John knew he was asleep.

“I don’t know how I can help you Sherlock, but I will. You know you mean a lot to me.” He whispered to the sleeping figure below him.

Trying to focus on the t.v in front of him, John was wondering if he should call Mycroft for help or demand answers, or if he should come up with some way to stop this habit, stop him from hurting himself.


	3. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a super rough day, writing helps! I'm not really happy with this chapter, I don't know. Tell me if there's anything wrong or any speller errors!

_One week later  
_

* * *

Sherlock didn’t consider it an addiction. He only did it when he had to. When he felt like his head was going to explode or he would drown in his sadness.  So, after John had gone to work and Sherlock had finished an experiment on freezing body parts, his mind was quickly going down a dark path.

He almost ran to his room, pulling open his drawer with too much force. After fiddling around with the secret compartment, he started to panic. His box was empty. There wasn’t even the small white bag of powder that was months old.

 _Think, think, think._ John couldn’t have found all of his hiding places. No, he wouldn’t look too hard. Sherlock thought he would only look in the most obvious places and he was right. They were hidden in a shoebox in his wardrobe. Some were old and had dried blood on them; some were untouched and gleamed in the light that poured through his curtains.

 Could he do this? He played a conversation in his head that he had with John three days ago.

_“Sherlock let me help you. I don’t want you to have to hurt yourself to feel something, to keep the boredom away. Come to me instead.” John pleaded with him._

_“John, it-it’s not that easy. It’s the only thing that helps, trust me, I’ve tried everything else.  I will try to get better, for you. However, I cannot make any promises.” Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s face, studying his reaction._

_“That’s all I’m asking for.” He watched as hope filled John’s eyes and he knew that this would end badly._

One thing Sherlock did not want to do was disappoint John, but he doesn’t understand. He _needs_ this. The door was locked; there was nothing to stop him. When he looked down at the collection of blades, all doubt left his mind and he picked one up.

Just looking at it sent shivers down his spine and the urge to feel release became so strong it almost hurt.

Did he want to die? No. As the days went on and the pit of depression grew, he starting to really question it. Maybe he did. John knew about his eighteenth birthday, but he didn’t know about how deep he had gone, how far he had fallen. Waking up in a hospital bed the next day wasn’t exactly what he planned.

Of course, when the drugs got horribly bad he overdosed. Four times. Looking back, he can’t figure out if they some were attempts or just drug tolerance. It didn’t matter, those demons were gone for now.

This time, Sherlock undone his trousers and pushed them down to reveal his stark pale legs. _John won’t find anything here._ His blogger had started to check his wrists and torso every night. All he had found was long scratches up his arms which had been done to get some kind of relief.

He placed the blade on his thigh and pushed down, dragging it across until he saw blood being to surface. _It is not enough. You need to suffer more._ Repeating the action again, he found that he still wasn’t getting that euphoric rush that washed over him.

He lost count of how many times he had placed the blade on his skin now. The cuts were becoming longer and deeper. Blood rolled down his thigh and dropped onto the floor. Soon he dropped the razor, satisfied with himself. He felt numb, but a good numb. Now he could focus.

 _If John saw this he’d be so disappointed._ Guilt crashed over him and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. What had he done? He ignored the mess that he made and went to take a shower to wash off the drying blood that covered his thigh.

 

* * *

When he was dressed in black pajama pants, a loose t-shirt and his dressing gown, Sherlock laid on his bed, hands steeple under his chin. He had cleaned the mess up and packed away his razors, enjoying the sting that went through his body when he moved too fast.

John can’t find out. Images of his disappointed face were starting to get on his nerves.

_Two hours later_

John bounded up the stairs, eager to take off his shoes and watch telly. Today was his first day back at work since finding out about Sherlock’s bad habit. Of course he was worried to leave him alone. Even though he and Sherlock had talked about it, it still made him nervous to think about him here by himself, sharp objects all around him.

The other night John had woken up sweaty and scared with images of Sherlock bleeding out on his bathroom floor. They had been so vivid, so realistic all John wanted to do was go and check on him and hug him.

When John walked through the door of their flat, seeing Sherlock in a ball on the couch helped ease his worries. “Hey, Sherlock. How was your day? I hope you didn’t burn the floor again, Mrs Hudson will-“

John stopped halfway through taking off his shoes when his flat mate turned to look at him. He looked pale and tired, and John’s instincts were telling him something was not right.. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? Did something happen?” His worried voice made Sherlock stiffen.

“You can tell me anything.” _Did you do it again?_ Was left unsaid.

“John, I tried so hard. I don’t think I can stop anymore, p-please don’t be mad at me.” His voice cracked halfway through and John couldn’t find it in him to be mad at him.

“I’m not mad. I’m glad you told me, now, let’s have a look.” It was important to John that he kept his flat mate from getting any sort of infection, it was the last he could do if he couldn’t help in any other way.


	4. Slipped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I really don't know if I like this chapter.   
> So again, sorry for the wait and sorry for shitty writing! I tried.

“I’m struggling to figure out a way to help you, Sherlock. I can’t let this go on any longer.” John’s stern voice rang through his ears but he didn’t pay attention. He was too busy focusing on anything else.

“Listen to me, please! Do you know how it feels to go to work wondering if you’re going to hurt yourself while I’m gone? I can’t stand it. It’s driving me mad. To know that I can’t help the one person who means everything to me makes me wonder if I’m a good friend at all.” Sherlock looked at him when he said that.

John was his blogger, his right hand man, and his most trusted friend. Of course Sherlock considered Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson ‘friends’ but they weren’t like John. Nobody was like John. Anger flared up inside him. “How could you say that, John? Now you’re just being an idiot.”

“Then let me help you.” He knew John was determined, but it is his problem to deal with. It wasn’t as serious as the shorter man was going on about.

“You’re starting to annoy me.” Sherlock didn’t know why he was hesitant to let John help him, he knew that it would be beneficial.

“You were willing to let me help you a few nights ago, why not now? Why can’t you just admit that sometimes you do need help to overcome things, even though we know that will damage your ego!” He could tell John was angry now, but he found he didn’t care. He needed John to stay out, let him rebuild the walls he had placed around his mind.

Over the past two nights, Sherlock had re-evaluated everything. His mind was more damage than he thought, his demons were pulling him down and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get out or not. Could he fully recover from everything? There was Father, drugs, hyperactive mind and feelings; there was too much to handle.

 _Feelings,_ he though viciously. They were horrible things. Always trying to claw their way into Sherlock’s heart, always distracting him in certain cases. His feelings for John had grown lately and even though Sherlock sensed the same for the other man, he decided to push them out his head and heart. After all this, John wouldn’t want a relationship with such a fuck-up anyway.

As Sherlock got lost in his thoughts, John got angrier. “I’m going out for a little bit. Please, don’t do anything. I just need some air to cool down.” He watched as John took his coat off the rack and started too decent down the stairs.

If Sherlock had the energy to do anything, he probably would, but right now he was too empty. Numbness was spreading over his body but he didn’t mind. It was actually nice. However, he was craving a cigarette.

* * *

That’s how John found him an hour and a half later, perched on the arm of the couch with a cigarette in hand. Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on him and he was so angry in that moment. He couldn’t stop his free hand pulling on his hair to give him some sort of pain, no matter how small it is.

“I cannot believe you would call him, John. I cannot believe you would tell him of my recent activities when you know, you know what he will do. He will come here in his black fucking car,” he paused to take a long drag. “With his stupid fucking umbrella and go on about how a clinic will do me well or suggesting I should have a holiday somewhere exotic.” Sherlock’s voice was like acid, but John knew it wasn’t directed at him.

“You have to understand that I am at an utter loss. I called him to get a better understanding of what happened to you, how I can help you because you’re not another one of my patients and I can’t act like you are. I am not trained for this. Mycroft can come and threaten to send you away but I will not allow him to do so.” John slowly walked towards Sherlock, trying to free his hand from the wild curls.

“Tell me what I must to do get my consulting detective back, tell me and I will do it.” Sherlock nodded, stubbing out his cigarette and turning to look at John.

“I do not know. Distract me for now.” Sherlock needed time to figure out how he would fix the mess his mind was.

“Maybe you could try talking to someone?” John’s suggesting was met with a look that screamed _you’ve got to be kidding me._ “Hey, it was just a suggestion! Even though I want to, I can’t rid you of your problems overnight. I have talked to someone and that worked for me, but maybe we can try some anti-depressants? For the short term at least.” Before Sherlock had the chance to send John another look he added, “Think about it.”

He felt John’s arms wrap around him and he felt warm, safe. That’s what John reminded him of; safety, warmth, love and jam. Maybe he would let John help him than trying to do this all on his own. 


	5. Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it took me three days to write this. Sorry for the wait, my own mental state hasn't been the best at the moment.   
> I hope this is okay and hopefully I can have another chapter soon!  
> thank you for your comments x

It was two days after that conversation Mycroft had organized their family doctor to come and see Sherlock. As requested, John waited outside in the kitchen with a cup of tea he was gripping a little too hard. All he could do was stare down the hall where Sherlock’s room was, listening to the mumbled voices behind his closed door.

Sherlock did not want this to happen; he was acting like such a child last night. ‘ _It’s for your own good, Sherlock.’_ John had told him ‘ _please, do it for me’_ had ended up making him surrender and left John with a rather sulky consulting detective.

They have been in there for almost an hour and although John knew it would do his friend good, he just wanted to know Sherlock was alright. He had already cleaned their small living room and attempted to clean up the kitchen table that was littered with substances and equipment that had been stolen from Barts, but that hadn't settled him.

Fourteen minutes later they emerged (but who was keeping count?). Sherlock came out first, his demeanor told John.. Nothing. All he could do is hope he had opened up about the last couple of weeks. Waiting patiently for them to finish having their quiet one-sided conversation, he studied this family doctor.

Mycroft had said that this man, Dr Pulver, has been the family doctor since Sherlock was born. Their parents met him overseas and that’s how he’s here today, standing in Sherlock Holmes’s living room handing the man himself papers.

With a nod in John’s direction the doctor left, leaving Sherlock staring down at blue forms which John knew were prescriptions. “How did it go?” John was careful when he spoke, he didn’t want Sherlock to lock himself away in his room to do god knows what.

“Fine. Can you go down to the chemist and get these for me?” Of course John noticed that Sherlock would not make eye contact with him, just handed him the papers and nodded before walking back to his room.

* * *

_“We know your depression is fuelling your self-harming behaviors. How bad has it gotten, Sherlock?” Martin Pulver has been there through it all. Sometimes Sherlock would just talk to him, it wouldn’t be medical and he enjoyed that._

_“I don’t know anymore, I’m uncertain of everything and I can’t keep the feelings out now. It’s hard and sometimes I shut down so much I would not care if I died. Is it bad to think that after all these years the nightmares would have stopped?” His voice got quieter as he talked and all Sherlock wanted to do was lay on his bed and let his sadness swallow him._

_“You’re going to have to show me the cuts. Maybe Mycroft should have called me sooner, you both know I will do anything I can to help you.” Over the years Martin Pulver had become a father figure to Sherlock. He seemed to be the only one who gave a shit about what was happening back then._

_Reluctantly Sherlock undone his shirt buttons and began rolling them up, wincing as the fabric rubbed against healing cuts. Pulver didn’t need to see the ones on his thigh, these were enough. The other man was mumbling about them, examining them and pausing to take down notes._

_“We’ll start up on your old anti-depressants and I would love to give you something for your sleeping problems, but because of your drug abuse it makes it quite hard.” Sherlock nodded, absorbing his words. “Also, it would be beneficial to start seeing someone or talking to someone. You have my number I hope.” He didn’t, but he tried to give the doctor a reassuring smile._

_“Thank you, Martin. I am sorry Mycroft dragged you down here when you were on holidays.”_

_“Oh, it’s no worries. Going on holidays by yourself can be a bit boring anyway.” He smiled at Sherlock and suddenly the detective was hit with memories from his youth. They left his room and Sherlock listened as he told him when he should take his medication and the side effects, even though Sherlock already knew them. “Remember to call me whenever, I don’t care what time it is. I know you probably won’t though.” Then he handed him his prescriptions and left Sherlock with his thoughts._

* * *

  
It was after John had woken up from a nap he noticed Sherlock had left his side. They had eaten take out and John had given Sherlock his medication. After an hour of listening to John type, Sherlock had demanded they watch some crappy mystery show. He didn’t know how long he had fallen asleep for, all he knew is the older man wasn’t next to him where he had been. Getting up and stumbling into the kitchen, John still could not hear or see him.

 _His room, you git._ Panic surged through him and John almost ran to the large wooden door, knocking tentatively. “Sherlock, can I come in?” He waited to hear a response, but there was none. Slowly he opened the door and peered in.

It was almost completely dark beside the little stream of light that filtered through the curtains. All John could see was a shape hunched over at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. He approached him slowly, not wanting to frighten him. “What’s wrong?” He sat down next to his friend, the only important thing to him at the moment.

Silence dragged on for what felt like hours, but John knew it was only a couple of minutes. “I... I feel empty. This is my last chance to get better before I let them pull me down.” John had to lean his head on Sherlock’s shoulder to hear him.

“Who will pull you down?” He whispered to the other man seemed to be in a pain John didn’t understand, _couldn’t_ understand.

“The demons. My past. I can’t escape it.” It was then the doctor noticed how bad Sherlock’s shoulders were shaking and before he could think about it, muffled sobs were coming from the other man.

“I will get you through this and once it’s done, we can leave your past behind so you’re just you. Just Sherlock.” John grabbed the blanket that was on his bed, deciding that holding Sherlock while he cried was more important than anything. So that’s what he done until it began to get lighter outside and the broken man sitting next to him had fallen into an uneasy sleep.


	6. Delusion

For the next week, Sherlock and John made a routine: wake up (or stay up, whichever one Sherlock felt like doing), watch John make breakfast, eat whatever he could manage, take meds in front of John and then amuse himself until his friend returns home.

When Lestrade came over to get help on a case Anderson could probably solve, Sherlock couldn’t help his smirk. _Of course they still need me,_ he thought. Maybe this was the beginning of a somewhat ‘normal’ life for John and him. Things were going back to the way they were before Sherlock’s emotional breakdown.

Together they ran all around London chasing down criminals, but something felt off. Something had changed between him and his blogger. No longer was there a space between them when they sat on the couch. They sat next to each other and sometimes John would brush his hand against his own unconsciously.

There was a spark of electricity between them that hadn’t dissolved. He couldn’t ignore it any longer, couldn’t ignore the lingering stares. So, when John came home from his first day of work Sherlock would confront him and talk about his feelings.

He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Never would he stop hating his feelings and how they took control of him, but maybe he would learn how to deal with them. That is what John has been trying to tell him when they stay up and talk about things on Sherlock’s mind.

 _You can’t help that you feel things, Sherlock. You certainly can’t stop it either, but you can come to terms with it and figure out how to handle them. They overwhelm you so much now because you don’t understand them at all._ Had been his words uttered to Sherlock late at night.

It was only two thirty. John got home at five o’clock. _Now, I need to think about the best way to approach this before he comes home._

* * *

John almost ran up the stairs. He couldn’t help it, he was _excited._ Down at the clinic John and seem younger worker had been chosen to go to a convention about psychology and new studies published by doctors. Out of everyone at the clinic, John didn’t know why he was chosen, but he was. It didn’t matter about the lectures, they would be alright, and it was the fact that it was going to be _sunny_ wherever this thing was. Sunny and after the convention he had two days to do whatever he wanted to.

Entering their flat, John greeted Sherlock with a cheery hello and put on the kettle. “What are you so happy about?” A smooth voice behind him asked.

“Oh, I’m going away for a week with work. It’s exciting.” John turned to him and smiled, relieved to see the older man return his smile.

“That’s great, John. When do you leave?” Sherlock’s voice sounded a little bit off, but John put that down to lack of sleep probably.

“In two days! It’s quick, I know. Are you going to be okay while I’m gone?” He studied Sherlock, wanting to know if he was going to be honest.

“Yes, I will be fine. I have Ms Hudson if I need her and there will probably be a case to work on.” John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock bet him to it. “You’re going. You deserve a break. I will be okay.” His voice was stern and John knew he wasn’t going to be able to back out now.

“Okay, okay. I just worry.” As he finished pouring milk into their tea cups, John wondered if he should go. Maybe if he didn’t feel good about leaving Sherlock here, he could just say it was canceled. _As if he would buy that._ Would Sherlock hate him if he called Mycroft to check in while he was gone?

* * *

_He’s going because he’s sick of looking after you._

_He does not care about you, stop lying to yourself._

Sherlock couldn’t stop the vicious thoughts from circling in his mind. Yes, the medication was helping him but he’s learning that sometimes it isn’t enough. However, he won’t tell John that. He’s worried enough as it is.

It was only a week. 7 days, 168 hours, 10080 minutes, 604800 seconds. _No, no, no, no. Stop._ Now his brain Is going so fast it’s causing a headache, but he still listens to John talking to him. Nods when he has to, gives a small smirk if needed.

It’s one week. He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, what will happen?  
> Hopefully going to have another chapter in a day or two!


	7. Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written at 1:30am so be kind.  
> Things will get better soon, I promise! I feel bad for making Sherlock so depressed and making it so hard for him to start properly recovering, but there's brighter times for him down the road. You can always give me any advice/opinions on what I should do, it would be much appreciated. Thank you guys. x

John has been gone for one and a half days and Sherlock could feel himself slipping. _No,_ he thought stubbornly. _I will do this, I have to._ If he couldn’t do it for himself, he would do it for the other man so dear to him. After John’s announcement Sherlock had pushed all thoughts aside of bringing up his developing feelings. Instead he had spent his remaining two days before John’s trip doing whatever he could with him, and reassuring John he would be fine.

Even though it was less than a week now and John was going to come back, his mind was trying to tell himself otherwise. For the first day however, he was fine; pushed through his emotions and bid his blogger farewell. Ms Hudson would check on him constantly, even stayed in his flat cleaning for over two hours.

It was halfway through day two when his thoughts took a dark turn.

He almost dropped his violin, he couldn’t _breathe._ All of a sudden anxiety crash around him and he thought he was going to have an attack or something. Scrambling for his phone he called John, using the wait before he picked up the phone to attempt to calm down.

Instead of John answering, it was his voicemail. Sherlock couldn’t help the anger that bubbled inside of him and he threw his phone across the room. Somewhere inside of him Sherlock knew John was busy, probably at a lecture, but another part of Sherlock disregarded that and replaced it with _he doesn’t want you. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t love you, who could love you?_

Sherlock did not want to do anything stupid. No, he has only had one small incident where he smashed a mirror and left ugly cuts on his knuckles. Nothing else has happened since then and he’s proud of that. He settled with lig tugging viciously on his hair, huddled in the corner with his phone that now had a smashed screen next to him.

Looking out the window was somewhat calming, watching the cars drive by and the sky slowly darken. Sleep was overtaking him and he let it, knowing he would be up in an hour.

Ms Hudson woke him up when it was pitch black outside. She had brought Sherlock dinner then sat with him until he finished it. He asked her to watch some television with her to pass the time, to not feel so alone. However, he ended up telling her how about how much he missed John. She sat there, stroking his hair and nodding along.

He watched as she hopped down the stairs, rambling about how breakfast would be taken care of when he woke up. Sometimes he hated eating; it left him with a horrible feeling in his stomach, but for her he would try. Ms Hudson was like a mother to him and she was there for him more than his real one.

At the moment, he didn’t really feel anything. Maybe it was his medication, maybe it was being too emotional for too long. He doesn’t care; he just wants to feel this way forever. If this was how he was going to be in John’s absence, he would be nothing when John got back.

The thought made him laugh out loud, a bitter sound that made him flinch when it was louder than he expected. He got up from the couch and stumbled into the bathroom, blinking rapidly at the bright light after he turned it on. Was he going to do this? What would John say?

 _Who cares what John has to say? He left you, he isn’t coming back anymore._  

No, stop it. John has gone for a week and he will come back.

_Keep lying to yourself._

_Maybe he figured out you, the sociopath, has feelings for him. You disgust him._

Sherlock hated himself for living at that moment. All he wanted to do was make the voices stop, make it all stop. He sat with his back against the bath tub, head on his knees. Would he make it to the end of the week without falling back into old habits? Fuck, at this point, he did not think he would.

Feeling the wetness on his cheeks was no surprise. Sometimes he’d be crying for no reason last at night. John had said it was sometimes a way of dealing with things, letting things out. Personally, Sherlock hated it. Crying showed weakness and he only cried in a case or if it was necessary. _Well, not anymore._

It was almost 12 am. Rising slowly, he moved so he was directly in front of the mirror. John had gotten rid of all of Sherlock’s razors, the sharp knives and anything else John didn’t want in the house. However, he didn’t take their shaving razors.

Maybe he thought that Sherlock wouldn’t use them for this, but he was going to. He grabbed a new one from the packet and it took him less than a minute to break it open and retrieve the blade. Shiny, silver, _beautiful._ It would shut the thoughts up; leave him with utter peace for at least a day.

When he had the blade on wrist, he took a deep breath like he was preparing himself for this. Before anything happened, John flooded through his mind and his hand shook. _He would be so disappointed. So ashamed._

He threw the razor into the sink, a yell escaping him. Sherlock had a feeling this was going to end up horribly wrong.


	8. Graceless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been extremely busy with school and family. I wanted to update before I go away for the weekend, so here you go! Hopefully another chapter in a week.  
> Warning for drug use! sorry it's so short too.

It was during the third night, Sherlock was out in the streets wondering around when he realized he was heading straight for a dealer out the back of a nightclub. Maybe if he could think rationally he would care, but right now all he wanted was for his brain to shut the fuck up.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he didn’t have to check it to know who it was. _Mycroft,_ the bloody git. Always knew what he was doing. Sherlock swore that this was more stalking than keeping an eye on someone. In the darkened alley, Sherlock found who he was looking for.

Bucky used to be Sherlock’s dealer until his last hit. When he was desperate, Bucky made Sherlock do his homework in uni for a hit. Back then he did almost anything to get a hit though. “Holmes, mate, what can I do for ya?” Nothing had changed about Bucky since Sherlock knew him. Still the same cheap, stolen clothing and annoying high pitched voice.

“Have you got the usual, Bucky?” Sherlock’s heart was pounding faster, eager to get his hands on something.

“Hold on a sec,” He left Sherlock in the alley way to head into a door opposite the nightclub’s rear entrance. “Ah! Here, it’s the best stuff down here right now.” In Bucky’s hands was a small plastic zip-lock bag containing a fine white powder.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Bucky.” Sherlock passed him enough money so Bucky knew some of it was for him. When he had the clear bag in his hands, he was tempted to shoot up right there and then.

If he stood still, he could imagine how the powder would feel in his veins. How his mind would work so fast he couldn’t think properly. The buzzing that started in his pocket again pulled him from his hypnotic state.

“Mycroft, I understand you are stalking me, but dear brother, can I just have this night?” He almost snarled at the older Holmes.

“I don’t think mummy would appreciate hearing you’ve gone back to old habits again.” Anger flared up, causing his grip to tighten on his phone.

“You think I care what our precious mother feels? She only cares because I’m making her reputation look bad. Excuse me, Mycroft. I must go now.” Before the sibling could utter another word, he hung up and decided to run home. Of course Mycroft would have his men following him.

All he could think about was the high and his thoughts taking his mind off of John. Sherlock did not care how John would feel; he was too far gone for that. This was something that had to happen. So when he finally reached the door to 221B, he locked himself in there and then ran up to his apartment and locked the door there too.

All thoughts of John were gone as he licked his finger, dipped it into the bag and rubbed some of the drug onto his gums, groaning at the almost instant rush of his brain. He needed to feel it in his veins, he needed it now.

Back before Sherlock started work with Lestrade, this was how he spent his nights; in the dark, belt around his arm while he waited for the solution.  Although he knew that Mycroft was going to be over any time in the next three minutes and John would be alerted of this probably, he couldn’t give a shit after he injected the seven percent solution.

When he felt it coursing through his veins, his steady heartbeat, he thought he would explode. This was pure bliss and he couldn’t believe he had given it up _._ At the back of his mind, the rational part of Sherlock was screaming at him to stop this, stop it and flush the rest. However, he decided to drown that voice out with another hit.

* * *

The stifness in his back was probably the problem that made him wake up. Cold wooden floors done nothing for his posture, but he couldn't move just yet. His head was pounding and the crook of his elbow was itchng for another needle, another something. 

To Sherlock, he was pathetic; crippled by sentiment and past memories. Not only was he shunned by his parents, but he was going to be rejected by John too. Was it worth it, the drugs for John? No, no, no. Thinking normally meant that he needed more, needed the fine white powder to block it all out for another couple of hours. Feeling the rays of sun on his back, he decided he couldn’t leave the house; looking outside hurt his eyes.

So, he texted Bucky and told him to send someone from his network to the door. Normally, he though Mycroft would pull up in his black car, but Sherlock hoped Mycroft realized he needed this. He trusted Mycroft would intervene soon, though. When the doorbell rang, Sherlock almost ran for it. His package had arrive and Sherlock paid the teenage in front of him double. Time for another night of absolute bliss, he still had at least two days until John was meant to arrive home. 


	9. Withdrawal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait. Things will be looking brighter soon, yay!   
> Enjoy the Johnlock feels, reviews appreciated/advice or if I make a mistake or something doesn't make sense just tell me!

When John walked through the door of 221B on a Sunday afternoon, he was not prepared for what he saw. Their small lounge room was a mess, papers and files strewn all over the floor. The kitchen table had two big burn marks in them and substances he’s never seen before in what Sherlock would call and ‘organized mess’.

Once he thought of Sherlock, all he wanted to know was where the older man was. You’d think after being away for seven days he’d want nothing more than to talk John’s head off. So, John walked down the hall to Sherlock’s door, knocking on it and announcing he was home, but here was no answer.

“Sherlock? Are you in there?”  John called, hoping his flat mate would wake up and greet him, answer the damn door to let John know he’s okay. He stared turning the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. What if he walked in on Sherlock asleep half naked? _Get over it,_ he told himself.

Inside his room was just as John had imagined it; dark, simple and a little messy. He owned a stack of books that were in front of his windows, some fallen and some opened on a random page. On his bed there was something, he couldn’t see very well.

 _Is this... Oh god, no please, Sherlock._ John’s mind was a rush of thoughts and a sudden anxiety overwhelmed him. Images of Sherlock over dosing, dead on his bedroom floor made John dizzy. He had to find him.

“John, if you would please come with me. I need to explain some things to you that have occurred in your absence.” The man jumped at the sudden voice and turned to face Mycroft Holmes.

“Where is Sherlock?” The worry was evident in his voice. He received no reply, just watched as Mycroft made his way out of 221B and into the black car waiting downstairs. John really had no other option here.

* * *

 

By the time Mycroft started to talk to John, they a good two hours outside of the city. Each word was like a dagger to John’s chest; cocaine, cutting and lack of sleeping were the summary of what had happened in his absence. Guilt was written all over the face of the other Holmes brother.

“He was so lost, so helpless. I knew something like this would happen and when he brought the drugs I tried to talk to him, but I could tell even if took him he would escape and do something worse.” Mycroft stared out the window, seeming lost in memories John didn’t know.

“Sherlock Holmes is a complicated man. I have always taught him to think with his head, not his heart because caring is a distraction, a disadvantage. It still is, but it is obvious my brother needs you to help him stay sane. Are you willing to go through this with my brother, Dr Watson?” His tone was almost harsh; like he suspected John would say no.

“Of course. I am committed to him; I cannot and will not leave him.” How could he? Sherlock was his world; he was the only one who pushed John’s buttons, kept him on his toes and he hoped he done the same thing for the consulting detective.

“That’s what I thought. Now, Sherlock is still going through detox. It’s not the prettiest sight, and if he lashes out just remember he’s had a long two and a half days for him.” The car rolled to a stop as Mycroft finished talking.

John was cracking his knuckles, a habit which he always despised. As soon as he exited the car he was staring at what seemed like an old mansion. Wooden arches, bricks that are probably three times older than John. If he knew it wasn’t a rehabilitation center, he would have thought it was beautiful.  

Walking down a clean, white hallway to what was a private room; John wondered why hospitals always chose the color white. Wouldn’t you make it bright and colorful, try to liven it up? No, they chose white with white marble tiles. Staring at the walls made his head hurt, how did people not go crazy looking at the plain surroundings?

His room was small, but bigger than all of the others the doctor had walked past. There was a bed that looked cheap and uncomfortable, a desk and another small room attached that had a toilet and shower.

John spotted him then. All thoughts of how shitty this room looked stopped, his breath escaped him. In the corner, Sherlock Holmes was sitting with his head on his knees. Hair greasy, wearing what looked like light blue hospital scrubs.

“Sherlock?” He asked quietly, not wanting to scare the man tucked away, but he flinched anyway. When he stood up, John saw the angry fresh red marks that covered his arms and he knew there was more on his thighs.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” The consulting detective in front of him asked. “Doesn’t it disturb you? Make you sick? Look at what I did to myself, John.” His voice cracked, tears forming in his eyes.

“I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. I feel horrible, Sherlock. Please, do not say that. You, to me, are beautiful. All your faults that you think you have, all of the scars over your body is what makes you, _you._ It’s what makes you _my_ Sherlock.” John walked forward, wrapping his arms around the man who was so fragile, so breakable. He silently promised the older man he would take away all of his self-hatred for good. 

"'M sorry too, John." 


	10. Cozy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I'm sorry this has taken so long and that it's relatively short! but aw, Johnlock feels.   
> So many people have read this, i can't believe it! Thank you.   
> Reviews and kudos are appreciated. x

Sherlock came home from rehab five days later. He thought it would be tense and awkward, but to his surprise it wasn’t. Of course he had expected the apartment to be cleaned of all sharp objects, which annoyed him greatly, and a drug search. They had probably messed up his room.

After coming out of the overpriced shit house Mycroft sent him to, he felt stupid and weak. Withdrawal was the worst thing about drugs; Sherlock always told himself after every withdrawal he would never put himself through that again.

Besides that, he knew that things had shifted between himself and John. They were on a fine line before, friendship or love; however they both knew it was a mix of both now.  Sherlock did not want to say anything to John about his feelings until he knew for sure he could handle it. Obviously he couldn’t before, having relapsed horribly.

Throughout his life he thought he would never meet someone like John. Lestrade came close, but not quite. That was more of a friendship, an honest, real bond. Before John, Lestrade would be the one to help him through withdrawal and anything he felt. They would talk about it, sometimes Sherlock would cry about it and Greg never judged him or pushed him away.

John Watson, however, pushed him and challenged him, but he always knew that John was there. Right there, anytime of the day for any problem and that made Sherlock’s heart ache that somebody wanted him so completely and was so loyal. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with those feelings beside _feel_ them and be left confused and a mess.

Over the years he had learnt that love was a disadvantage, a distraction. He has been proved right. If anyone tried to take his John away, he would do unspeakable things to that person. Letting someone in has been the hardest thing for the detective to do, but now that John is in he will not let him go.

* * *

 

After dinner that night, Sherlock was too tired to do anything else, but couldn’t face going into his room yet. “Come sleep with me then, I don’t see a problem.” John had said, smiling and taking his hand. Sherlock agreed reluctantly, scared of what may or may not happen.

John’s room was smaller than his and that made it felt cozy. Everything was neat and organized, Sherlock knew it would be. He felt anxious as John brushed his teeth in the small adjoining bathroom. He was still wearing his dressing down and trousers to cover his ugly scars when John joined him again. “You can’t sleep in that; you’ll get too hot during the night. Come on, at least take your pants off. I meant that in the least dirtiest way.” John laughed at himself and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“I just...” Sherlock cleared his throat, “I don’t want you to have to see all of my scars. It will make you uncomfortable.” He looked down at his hands, embarrassed.

“I have told you this already. They make you, you; the man that I love with everything in me. Although you may look at them and be disgusted, I am not. Those scars are a part of you.” John walked so he was in front of Sherlock and grabbed one of his hands, bringing it up to his lips so he could place a small kiss on it.

Sherlock knew what was happening the moment he saw John leaning in, but he didn’t know what to do. The moment John’s lips touched Sherlock’s it was like someone had lighted a fire deep within him. It was the first time someone had kissed Sherlock in many, many years and he none of them compared to this.

That night they fell asleep next to each other, Sherlock running his fingers along his lips while remembering their kiss. John had smiled at him once he pulled away and said goodnight, climbing into bed and falling asleep almost instantly.

Sherlock knew things would go slow between them, but he didn’t mind. As long as he felt like this he didn’t care what happened.


End file.
